Night of the Funeral
by Lake of Rage
Summary: Hinawa is dead. Claus is missing. Lucas is catatonic. It's the worst day of his life.
_Guess who got into MOTHER 3~?_

 _Guess whose immediate reaction to getting into MOTHER 3 was to write an incredibly depressing oneshot about the saddest death in the game before even bothering to finish the second chapter~?_

 _So, seriously... no spoilers. I'm only a few chapters in, and I've already had the best twist spoiled for me. NO! SPOILERS!_

 _With all that out of the way... prepare your tissues._

* * *

 **Night of the Funeral**

It's the worst day of his life.

When he wakes up, someone is knocking frantically on his door. For a moment, he thinks it might be Claus, overenthusiastic as always and eager to be home. Then he hears the desperate shrieks of "Flint! Flint! There's a fire! A fire!" and the paternal smile slips off of his face.

Stoic as always, he calmly opens up and nods in greeting. Immediately, he can smell something off; something is marring the pure Tazmily air. For a moment, he ignores his surprise midnight visitor, inhaling deeply through his nose, and it doesn't take long to pinpoint the newcomer among the familiar scents of pine and pollen and sheep. Smoke. Not cigar smoke; the scent of nicotine has a certain extra twang to its scent that is absent here. This is the kind of smoke that rises from campfires and lit matches.

In the end, he doesn't really need Thomas to tell him that the forest is on fire. That comes to him naturally. When Thomas asks for his help, he shoots the man a sidelong look to assure him that he needn't even ask. Anyone in Tazmily can tell you that Flint is never one to let others suffer if he can do something about it. So he tips his hat to the side, spits disdainfully onto the ground, as if he can't believe the impudence of a world that dares defy him at this hour, and takes off without a word, heading for the wobbling tower of smoke rising from the horizon.

* * *

If they see a man in a strange pink pig mask on the way, they don't let on that they do. His attention is on Bronson, collapsed and still worrying after Fuel and Lighter; on the other citizens trying to put out the fire; on Lighter, laying flat on his back amidst the smoldering carcasses of charred black trees. The blaze is still spreading; consuming everything it touches as fiercely as it pleases. Hacking and wheezing, Lighter demands someone go get his son, and, naturally, they oblige. _Flint will do it,_ Thomas tells him, and he isn't wrong to assume.

Kneeling by Lighter's side, he gives his best reassuring smile. It does its job.

He raises his chin high and tucks a strong stick into his belt loop, and people move out of his way. Excited whispers follow him as the whole town sinks back in relief, because _Flint is here. Flint will take care of everything._

 _Flint is the only one to trust with this._

* * *

By the time he makes it to the shack, most everyone has already pulled back, fleeing from the forest fire before they get themselves killed, but this town is his family as much as Hinawa is, so there's no way in Hell he's leaving unless it's with Fuel right behind him.

By the time he makes it to the shack, flames are pouring through the shattered window, and Fuel is screaming for help on the second floor.

Flint grits his teeth and digs his toes into the soot, then takes off, ramming his body into the door with all of his might. It splinters under the force of his charge and bursts open, coming right off its hinges. The heat is intense, and smoke clouds his vision, clogging his nostrils; he splutters a bit before wising up and falling to his hands and knees. The floor is dusty, but he can breathe again, so he drags himself to the stairs, putting out stray embers with his jacket.

An abomination attacks him as he makes for the stairwell—some sort of rodent with stubby little wings protruding from its back. He fends it off successfully and immediately throws it from his mind. There are more pressing matters at hand.

Miraculously, the rickety staircase doesn't collapse underneath his weight, and he makes it to the second story. The wood is rough and hot on his skin, and he hisses in pain when something burns through the back of his shirt, but he pushes forward, spurred on by the faint cries of Fuel from above.

Coughing, he emerges onto the second floor and surges to his feet. Safety is the last thing on his mind, so he just ignores the smoke. His priority now is Fuel. He spots a vague silhouette across the room and takes a moment to absorb the fact that Fuel is on the floor, crying and screaming. It doesn't take long to notice that there's a collapsed beam between them, keeping him from running to the rescue. Grunting in exertion, he presses his shoulder against the pole and heaves, but it barely even shifts. Changing his strategy, he instead grabs his improvised weapon and bashes rapidly at the beam, which shrieks under his blows. The boy is still screaming, still begging for help, and he growls in frustration, taking another desperate swing.

His weapon snaps in half and fire rushes along his side, edging ever closer to Fuel, who screams wordlessly, terror overcoming him.

With a roar, Flint draws back and charges, slamming himself into the wood that dares separate him from the one who needs his help. It gives under the sheer fury of his attack, and he wastes no time in gently lifting Fuel from the ground and leading his new charge back the way he came. This time, the stairs seem liable to collapse at any minute, and they do right after they make it to the ground floor, but they're out the door seconds before the rest of the house follows suit.

A cloud of soot washes over them, smothering them, and they choke as Flint drags them away. When they emerge from the smog, they're both pitch-black and wheezing, but they're _alive,_ they're _alive,_ and Flint could laugh in relief if he wasn't too busy hacking up a lung.

 _Thank you, Mr. Flint,_ Fuel says. _You saved my life, Mr. Flint,_ Fuel says. But, to him, it's just another random act of kindness. Dipping Fuel into the nearby hot spring to wash him off, he offers a smile not unlike the one he'd offered Lighter and smears soot playfully across the boy's nose as he would do with his own sons. For a moment, that brings an image unbidden to his mind—Claus, laying in the middle of a burning building; Lucas, screaming for help as the ceiling collapses on his head.

He shakes the image away and he's relieved that his family will be coming home soon. After the forest fire, after the narrow escape, after helplessly pushing at the fallen beam while Fuel screamed for help, he just needs to hold his boys and wife close for a while.

It begins to rain, and the whole town cheers.

* * *

They offer him a free room in the hotel for the night. He accepts, although he will have to wake up early and head home so he'll be there to greet his family when they arrive. He wishes he had the time and energy to write. Hinawa will be beside herself with worry if she sees the smoke from the forest fire, he knows, and he resolves to send a letter as soon as he's gotten some rest.

He dreams of Fuel dying in the burning building because he wasn't fast enough. Then he dreams of Lucas and Claus dying in his place, and he hates that he's a bit shaken up in the morning.

* * *

It's still dark out when he wakes up. It's still raining just as hard. Casually, he stretches his arms above his head as he leaves.

Isaac is waiting for him on the porch. It gives him a startling sense of déjà vu. _Is_ _Hinawa_ _home?_ he asks. _Have you seen her?_ he asks. It's a strange question for many reasons. In Tazmily, everything is everyone's business, so all the citizens know that Hinawa and the kids are visiting with her father. He says as much; says they'll be returning soon.

That's when his world crashes down around him.

 _A woman's screams._ It's vague. _A Drago roaring._ It's nonsensical. _I heard._ No indication of timing is given. It's entirely likely that it doesn't mean anything.

Hinawa isn't home. Flint hasn't seen her.

He brushes past Isaac and sprints the entire way home.

* * *

There's already a letter waiting for him when he gets there.

He barely scans it. From his brief skim, he gets all he needs. Hinawa loves him. His boys had fun. And they were supposed to be back by this evening.

For a moment, he just stands there. The letter hangs limply in his grasp. Rain is pounding down around him. Then, slowly, he moves back inside. Dripping wet, he nonetheless sits without a second thought in his usual chair, and he reads the letter again, this time with painstaking accuracy.

He doesn't hear the knocks. After a few tries, Isaac comes in. Fuel is hot on his heels. As soon as they register that, no, Hinawa isn't back yet, they're gone again, tearing off to tell the rest of the villagers. It's heartwarming that everyone is so determined to find his family, but he can't muster up the energy to be touched.

* * *

Rain still falling.

Felled trees.

Steep cliffs.

Slippery rocks.

It's the worst day of his life.

* * *

It's a familiar scrap of clothing.

At first, he tries to brush it off. He tries to pretend that a sharp pang of terror doesn't stab his chest when he sees the familiar red-pink fabric. It could be anyone's. There are plenty of people who wear red or pink clothing. At this time of night, at this distance, it's impossible to tell the color for sure, and it's wet, further obscuring its true color. Who can truly tell if it's Hinawa's? And, even if it is Hinawa's, that doesn't mean she's hurt. Clothing gets torn in the forest all the time.

He tries not to panic. He tries very hard.

Boney runs off to get the son of the town's resident thief. When Boney comes back with Duster in tow ( _right, that was the name: Duster_ ), he can hardly stand to wait any longer. The suspense is killing him, and it's killing him even more that there's really no suspense.

Duster's technique is quick and efficient, and, within minutes, he's scaling the cliff like it's nothing, leaving an improvised ladder in his wake. Flint is less than a step behind him, his gaze fixated solely on the scrap of clothing swaying from a tree branch hanging over the edge of the cliff.

It's a scrap of Hinawa's dress. There is no longer even a shred of doubt. There is no longer even a shred of hope. All he can do is hope that it's no coincidence that there's no sign of Lucas or Claus. He knows Hinawa would protect them with her life. That doesn't quite console him.

Duster, with uncharacteristic poise, tells him carefully that they should go look for her. He refuses to admit that he's shaking as he pockets the scrap of cloth.

His wife is fine. His wife is fine. His wife is fine.

* * *

They find Lucas and Claus floating in a river. Hinawa is absent from the scene. For the moment, he forces himself to forget about her; about how she would protect her sons with her life and how she would never let the family get separated like this and what that means for her chances of being alive. Right now, the priority is his children.

Duster leads him back, and he sees the light of the campfire before he sees any people. When he emerges into the clearing, he sees a crowd clustered tight around the flickering light of the fire, and he can barely make out a glimpse of his sons in between them all. He clears his throat and the villagers move aside, making a path for him.

Lucas and Claus are wrapped in a blanket, shivering, and huddled close to the fire. When everyone moves in sync, they both look up curiously, and their eyes fix on their father. Lucas tears up and whispers something that might be anything from _There's Dad_ to _Where's Mom?_ , and Claus bites the inside of his mouth visibly to keep from sobbing.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Flint snaps out of it. He rushes forward rather suddenly and dives for his boys, drawing them into a fierce hug. They both sink into his arms without complaint. Lucas latches onto him with startling strength, holding tight to his singed jacket, and it's not just because he's radiating warmth and they're both freezing cold.

They rest. They recuperate.

His wife is fine.

* * *

When Bronson shows up, he's running. He crashes through the trees without warning, and Abbot jumps in surprise. Bronson is breathless, chest heaving, and his eyes are wide, but his face isn't red; it's white as a sheet. He calls for Flint, and no one can quite comprehend the emotion in his voice—it's something between urgency and reluctance. A silence falls around the makeshift camp, everyone from Tessie to Lighter going stone still. Lucas shifts in his sleep with a murmur and Claus leans closer to his twin brother.

Regaining control of himself, Bronson takes a deep breath and asks Flint to come talk with him, this time far less forcefully. Frowning contemplatively, Flint rises to his feet, abandoning the tea he has been given, and walks up to meet his lifelong friend.

Bronson shifts. Bronson swallows. Bronson looks like he's rather be anywhere else. He produces a Drago fang from his jacket. The fang is stained with blood.

"I'm sorry," he says as he holds it out. "I found it… pierced through Hinawa's heart."

Flint stares. Tessie gasps in horror, dropping her tea set to the ground. It shatters loudly, and Claus wakes up with a start, automatically hugging Lucas closer.

No one says a word.

* * *

His wife is fine. Hinawa has not grown up like he has, brawling with everyone he can get his hands on and training with various weapons day and night, but she can take care of herself. Dragos are peaceful creatures, and good friends with her and the boys. She will never let herself die before she knows Lucas and Claus are safe. His wife is fine.

* * *

She has only been missing for about twelve hours. After almost forty years of living, how can a mere twelve hours have taken her life away from her so cruelly? It can't have. It just isn't possible. No, he refuses to believe it. There's no way that blood is hers. She is still out there somewhere, probably foraging in the forest that she has known her entire life. She will laugh when he sees her next, finding the idea of her being killed by a Drago absolutely absurd. His wife is fine.

* * *

There is a vague ringing in his ears. His vision has tunneled, and he can see nothing but the fang in Bronson's hands. His fingers unconsciously slip into his pocket, and he numbly grips the scrap of cloth from Hinawa's dress, pressing it into his fist.

His wife is fine.

* * *

He is only vaguely aware of his knees hitting the ground. His eyes have never left Bronson, and are now fixed on his friend's face. He keeps waiting for the smug grin; for the playful "Fooled you!" that never comes. No hint of emotion crosses his face; his body has solidified entirely.

"No," he says aloud. His voice is rough and it trembles in the air, drawing a visible flinch from the villagers. As if just comprehending the situation themselves, they all pull back rapidly, trying to give him room. He doesn't notice the gesture. Everything outside of him and Bronson has faded to a dull gray blur. There is no punchline. Somber as ever, Bronson meets his gaze evenly and does not laugh. It's no joke.

Giving out from under him, his legs quiver and fold uselessly aside as he hunches in on himself, placing his hands on the ground to brace himself.

Images rise to the forefront of his mind, conjured up by his sick imagination. Hinawa, run through by the enormous teeth of a Drago, her mouth gaping, her eyes wide with horror. Her hands, slick with blood and shaking hard, clutched weakly over her chest. Her dress, torn and tattered and soaked with blood. The light as it leaves her beautiful eyes. Her body as it goes limp, hitting the ground with a dejected _bang_ that sounds like it might have come from a gun.

"No," he whispers again, voice weak. Eyes slipping closed, he presses his palms into the mud underneath him in an effort to calm himself.

Rather suddenly, his fingers dig into the soil, curling into tight fists. He brings one hand up and slams it back onto the ground with enough force to shake the earth. _"No!"_ he bellows, and Lucas whimpers in his sleep.

His wife is not fine.

* * *

It passes in a blur.

"Flint, I don't know what to say," says Abbot, advancing on him; blurring into enemy forces in his muddled mind. Surging to his feet, he shoves Abbot away and turns on his heel, making for the campfire. Tessie shrieks as he snatches a stick from the fire, ignoring the pain, and swings it above his head. As he brings it down, he opens his mouth and screams in anger and sadness and guilt and grief all at once.

He destroys that fire in a flurry of enraged blows, reducing it to a smoldering pile of ash and glowing embers and a fleeting spray of sparks. There is no exhaustion afterwards; no satisfaction. In no way does it alleviate his anger. All it does is rile him up.

He hits the fang out of Bronson's hand. Then he straightens his body and steps forward menacingly. The stick is hot and heavy in his grip. "I don't want it," he says. "I want my wife." There's a threat in the words, and Bronson backs up warily, assessing the threat he poses. Although he may be exhausted and burnt and soaking wet, he's still arguably the strongest man in Tazmily, and they've never seen him angry before.

Then someone touches his shoulder, tries to coax him back, and he snaps.

He doesn't register what is happening until it has already happened. There's just an explosion of rage, the sound of Tessie screaming, Lucas's sudden wails, and the macabre image of Abbot lying beaten on the ground before something hard and heavy slams into the back of his head. He sees stars, and, as he tumbles into blackness, he thinks that he is happy to die today if it means he gets to see Hinawa again.

 _'Forgive me,_ _Hinawa_ _,'_ he thinks as he hits the ground. _'Your husband is a weakling, and a fool at that.'_

* * *

He sees her.

Her beauty, as always, is unmatched. Flowers in full bloom surround her, but none of them can come close. Awestruck, he watches as she lifts Lucas off the ground, laughing heartily. He shrieks happily as she spins him around with an exaggerated "Vrrrrrooooom!"

"It's a bird! It's a plane!" cries Claus, pointing at his brother, jumping up and down happily, and clapping his hands.

His boys are gone, and it's just Hinawa, her hair flowing in the wind; her dress billowing about her. She looks at him, and he looks back. There's sorrow in her face, and that destroys him more than he dares admit. Stretching out his hand, he takes a step forward. It takes him a minute to realize she steps back in tandem.

She closes her eyes. Acceptance; that's what it is. She turns quietly and leaves.

Flint watches her go, his desperate plea of "Wait" falling silent on his tongue.

* * *

He opens his eyes.

He's in some unfamiliar place that he can't quite put a finger on. The walls are stone, and there's a metal door and a barred window along one wall. A glance around shows no sign of Hinawa.

Something like a sob escapes him as he clutches his head in his hands.

 _God._

Still alive.

* * *

He charges at the door, crashing into it; it rattles loudly in its hinges, the rusty lock creaking, but shows no sign of breaking. He hurls himself against it again and again. When it fails to yield, he begins throwing himself against the walls. Stone and metal are hardly easy opponents; his bones feel liable to break and he has to be littered in long bruises by now, but he takes no notice. By the time Bronson comes in, it's no longer some sort of escape attempt; he's just unleashing his anger against the walls and hoping the pain will chase away the tears.

Bronson watches silently. Eventually, he exhausts himself and collapses, shaking, his limbs uncooperative. That's when Bronson steps forward guardedly, his stance stiff. Bronson tells him he's the first person that has ever been in the Tazmily jail cell. He knows. He doesn't care.

Bronson says Abbot should be fine, although he did a number on the man. That's when he remembers last night; remembers flesh giving under his knuckles; remembers Abbot crying _"Flint, stop!"_ and Ollie lunging for him in a panicked grab for his weapon and the not-unfamiliar feel of Lighter's tinder on the back of his head. His mind distorts the images, turning Abbot into Lucas and Ollie into Claus, as if it thinks he needs the extra push off the edge. Some sound between a sob and a moan ends the silence, and Bronson flinches, taking a half-step back.

Flint curls up like a wounded animal, and he has the air of a fallen lion. There's a certain tragic elegance to the way he hunches his shoulders in defeat; like an undefeated victor getting his first taste of pain. Both hands press against his face to hide it from the world.

"I'm so sorry," he says in a crumbling whisper. Neither man is sure whether he's talking to Bronson, Abbot, or Hinawa.

* * *

He realizes that his sons must have been told about their mother's fate. He thinks of Lucas, gentle and timid and driven to tears by the deaths of even spiders and worms; of Claus, always vowing to get stronger and protect her, and he's struck by the sudden urge to take them both into his arms and comfort his boys with what little sanity he has left. He can't; the barred window stands between him and his family, and the reminder of where he is and why he's there is entirely unwelcome.

Claus visits him. Lucas does not. He's glad, in some selfish way; he's burnt and bruised and bone-tired. He isn't sure Lucas can handle seeing his father like this, and he's positive he can't handle putting up a strong front at this point. Claus is stronger, somehow; always has been.

He learns that Lucas hasn't stopped crying over his mother's grave. He wishes Lucas had come to visit.

There's tension between them. There never has been before. Flint wonders if Claus saw him beating an innocent man into the ground. Never before has he wished that his sons were heavy sleepers quite as much as he does now.

Claus gives him an apple. Claus tells him rather forcefully that he absolutely _must_ eat it right down to the core. The earnest look in his eyes says it all. Then he turns and walks away, leaving the apple on the cement windowsill between the bars.

He pauses in the doorway. Every inch of his body screams hesitation, even trepidation, and Flint snaps to attention. Relaxed. Carefree. Brave. These are the words you use to describe Claus. Not "hesitant". Claus swallows thickly, ducking his head like he's committed some heinous crime. "Dad... I..."

He runs away, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

There is a file in the core of the apple. He becomes the first man in the Tazmily jail cell, and the first man to escape it.

That's his boy, he thinks. Successfully helping his old man break out of prison. It might be funny when he thinks about it later, but now it's just touching and yet a little sad. He's hit with a sudden wave of guilt. Claus is just a boy. He shouldn't have to worry about breaking his father out of prison or looking at the man his father beat to hell or losing his mother to some Drago with a temper.

He hobbles out the door, his accumulated injuries finally catching up with him. The light burns his eyes. He likes to pretend that's why there's moisture glistening on his cheeks.

Duster is waiting for him right outside the door. He has the same nervous look to him of Bronson last night and Isaac outside the Yado Inn and even Thomas when the forest was on fire and everything was simple. But there's something different about the resolute furrow to his brow. Starting with the usual paltry words, he offers some information. The burial went well; the entire town was there. Lucas hasn't stopped crying at the grave since. "His poor little heart seems like it's going to break in two," says Duster, and Flint's heart breaks into far more than two.

Then Duster clears his throat and looks down at the ground and says "If there's anything I can do to help... don't hesitate to ask." There's something earnest in his expression; something sincere in his tone. It helps more than Claus' affection; more than Bronson's apologies; more than Abbot's attempted comfort (but it hurts to think of Abbot, so he banishes that thought quickly).

He walks away, and that is answer enough. Duster slumps down on himself like he's done something wrong, and something in him breaks. He stops and can hear Duster tense up from a mile away.

"Duster," he says.

Duster turns around to face him. He keeps his back turned.

"...Thanks."

He tips his hat and can only hope Duster recognizes the significance of the gesture. Without another word, he leaves. Somewhere, his sons are crying because they lost their mother, and he'll be damned if they lose their father, too.

He limps his way through town with his head hung low and not a weapon on him, but people stumble out of his way. Trembling whispers follow him, piercing him like arrows, as the town recoils in fear at the mere sight of him. _Flint is back. Flint almost killed Abbot._

 _Flint can't be trusted._

* * *

Abbot says _"Your pain is far worse than mine."_ Abbot says _"I'm just_ _gonna_ _forget what happened last night."_ Abbot says _"Maybe you should try to forget, too."_

Flint thinks that's probably a good idea. But he can't forget. The image of Abbot, bruised and bloody, is burned into his mind. So he just offers a look he hopes explains this all—he's not up for words at the moment—and goes to visit Hinawa's grave.

* * *

Lucas is already there, crying profusely. The hem of his shirt is soaked in tears and his pant legs are stained with mud. Hinawa would have scolded him in the soothing way only she could pull off, wiping the dirt off his cheek and lifting him up to go get him cleaned off. Hinawa isn't here. So Flint just kneels by his side and puts an arm over him. Lucas leans into his touch readily, pressing his face against the charred jacket that had saved Fuel's life less than twenty-four hours ago.

It takes him longer than it should to realize that Claus has been gone for a long time. Alec realizes about the same time and immediately begins to interrogate Lucas. Ever the awful liar, Lucas almost immediately spills the beans despite his best intentions, and the world freezes around them

Faintly, Flint is aware of Alec chewing Lucas out and Lucas pulling back and starting to cry again. The villagers have begun murmuring amongst themselves, and Alec's voice only grows steadily louder. But Flint's world, still half-shattered from the death of his wife, loses any stability it might have had left.

Claus isn't here. He's off with a makeshift knife fighting the same creature that killed his mother.

In the end, Flint doesn't say a word to Lucas. By the time he recovers even slightly, the boy has run off, crying. Alec turns to him, looking rather affronted, but never gets the chance to complain about anything before Flint rises hastily to his feet. He stalks off to Bronson's without another word, collecting the Drago fang that he so desperately wishes he never will have use for. They're going to find Claus before he can get hurt; he'll be fine, and Flint will be able to have a serious talk with him about suicidal recklessness.

His son is fine. His son is fine. His son is fine.

* * *

All he ever gets of Hinawa is a scrap of her dress.

All he ever gets of Claus is a ratty pair of sneakers.

All he ever gets of Lucas is an empty husk of a boy.

It's the worst day of his life.


End file.
